


Somebody's Prince

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [275]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Chance Meetings, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Love at First Sight, M/M, Schmoop, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:56:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Later, he won’t be sure what made him stop, what made easing back from 45 and nudging the pickup towards the shoulder, towards the skinny guy with his thumb out and a legion of long, dark curls whipping over his face in the wind seem like such a damn good idea.





	Somebody's Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I picked you up on the side of the road because goddammit hitchhiking is not safe what if I was a serial killer?? Prompt from this [generator](https://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

Later, he won’t be sure what made him stop, what made easing back from 45 and nudging the pickup towards the shoulder, towards the skinny guy with his thumb out and a legion of long, dark curls whipping over his face in the wind seem like such a damn good idea.

Later, as the guy is arching beneath him, his hands moving breathless over Thor’s back, he’ll wonder what made that first kiss seem golden, what forces in the universe conspired to point him down that particular stretch of highway on that sullen afternoon where this man was waiting--for him, it seemed, plucked from a fairy tale or something: a sloe-eyed creature in distress.

Later, when he wakes up beside Loki, when the first of the sunrise cuts its way through dusty curtains and settles in thin lines on the bed, he’ll forget how it is to wake up any other way, what it’s like to open his eyes and not have a warm body twined in his arms. He’ll forget what it’s like to greet the world each morning and not be rewarded with a kiss.

“Good morning, my prince,” Loki will murmur, turning so their hips are snug, so his face is tipped up into Thor’s smiling, smiling. “My knight in dirty denim. How are you this morning, my love?”

Part of him will think it’s too early for those kinds of words, those kinds of feelings. He won’t understand, until that moment, how badly he’s needed to hear them, how good it is at long fucking last to _feel_ , and it will hit him hard--as Loki takes a kiss from him, bites his lip, goads him--how dull he’s been inside, how dead, his whole life.

He’s fucked enough and lived enough. If someone had asked him before this, before Loki, he’d have honestly said he had no regrets.

But as he crushes Loki’s mouth beneath his and rolls on top of him, pins that lithe body to the bed, he’ll realize that it’s hard to miss what you’ve never known before and shit, he’s never known anything like this: the electric slither of Loki’s legs, the way they part for him, eager to give up their secrets. The growl in Loki’s throat when he’s not getting what he wants, when he’s already wet and Thor’s teasing him, barely touching, his fingertips brushing the place where Loki wants his cock. The look on Loki’s face when he finally plunges in, no technique, no finesse--when they fuck, it’ll be about joining and need, about a whipcrack desire to be of the same flesh, to be one. Oh, there will be pleasure--always, from the very first--but Thor will come to understand that it’s this primacy which drives out his senses, which makes the soft squeeze of Loki’s cunt joined with the hard jut of Thor's dick an experience not unlike the divine.

He needs Loki. He’ll understand that in time. And Loki needs him, craves him, adores him from the first time their eyes meet on that quiet road, the one with scrub brush and fences in every direction that Thor, later, will never remember turning down before. He’s on his way home from town, a fortnight’s supplies in the bed and the world blue sky around him and for the first time in forever, he won’t be in a rush to get back to the ranch. A couple of hours left until evening chores; the soft sun of an early spring day, one pretty enough to make him forget the long months of skin-peeling heat that are headed his way. So he’ll turn down a road he’s never explored in all the years he’s lived in the west plains of Texas and turn up the radio, whistling, Hank Williams crooning as the Ford bumps over the pavement and Thor grins in the sunshine and croons back.

Later, he’ll think of it as fate. Godly intervention, maybe. What his mother would call just the right turn of the wheel.

What other explanation is there for the feeling he has when the truck shudders to a halt, when the stranger ambles up to the passenger’s side window and sticks his head in, turns his blue eyes towards Thor’s very soul.

“No chance you’re heading towards Houston, is there?”

“That’s in the other direction.”

The stranger laughs, a dry kind of cough. “Yes, I know that. But I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“You an Okie?” He has that look about him--thin and tired, his hands coated in dust.

“Not exactly.”

“But you’re looking for work.”

Blue eyes find his, piercing. “I suppose you could said that.”

“Well,” Thor says, “ok. Want a job?”

Heimdal isn’t sure about the man, who says his name is Loki. Nor is Thor’s mother any too keen. But that’s the beauty of being in charge of your own property, of having something in your name: nobody but you makes the rules.

“Loki’s staying with me until we can get the bunkhouse ready,” he says while they’re eating dinner at his mother’s table. And that’s that.

If he’d picked Loki up a month later, the ranch would’ve been swarming with seasonal labor. There would have been other men to eat meals with, a clean if sparse bunk bed. He sure as hell wouldn’t have ended up in Thor’s house.

“You take the bed tonight,” Thor says in the twilight, while they’re making the walk from the big house to his clapboarded own. “No use you crashing in your bedroll. Probably had enough of that lately, huh?”

A chuckle, one that reminds Thor of good brandy. “It’s been a while since I’ve had occasion to sleep on a mattress, yes.”

“A while, huh? How long have you been on the road?”

“Long enough.” Loki sighs. “Too long, truth be told. I’m grateful to be off.”

There’s a little chill in the air, a hint of a breeze. Thor likes the way it stirs up Loki’s hair. Likes it so much that when they’re tucked behind his front door, when he’s turned down all the lamps but one, he finds himself rustling the dark strands with his fingers. They’re still damp from Loki’s impromptu hand-pump bath.

“Thank you,” Loki says, pressing his palms to the front of Thor’s faded shirt. “You’ve done me a great kindness.”

Thor swallows. “Right now, I don’t feel particularly kind.”

“What do you feel like then, hmm? What does it feel like to be somebody’s prince?”

“What?”

Loki looks at him, deep and rich and true. The corners of his mouth lift. Thor wants to touch them. He does.

“You saved me,” Loki murmurs, tipping his face into Thor’s fingers. “Rescued me from an ugly fate just as surely as if I were a girl in a castle, locked away by a dragon, hungry for the sound of her prince’s horse approaching, those hooves pounding on the wind. Desperate at last to feel safe.”

They don’t light the lamp in the bedroom; they’re both too eager. Time enough in the future for that.

Loki is molton that first night, the scent of his sex intoxicating, and it takes an act of will for Thor to tear his face away from its worship, from the swell of Loki’s clit, the sweet drool of his cunt. His fingers are too slippery to push open his pants. Loki helps him, opens for him, pushes his trousers down and cups the curve of Thor’s ass, and when Thor enters him in two short thrusts, it’s too much.

He’s still crying out when Thor kisses him, licks at the noise, revels in it. Commits himself to hearing it more.

“Oh,” Loki whispers as Thor loses himself, all control of his senses, each scorched by the grip of Loki’s body, his hands. “Oh, Thor, fuck me.  _Thor_.”

Later, Thor will wonder at it, the life he had before. Sleep and the sun and the livestock, the fields. A meal. Sleep. How he had survived on so little? He had lived, yes, but had it sustained him? How could it? Not the way his life with Loki does.

Loki, who never gets back on the road. Loki, who never sleeps in his bedroll again. Loki, who lays in his lap after supper as they listen to the wireless in his mother’s parlor and marvel at the horrors of the world, the armies marching. A whole continent edging towards war.

But on the little ranch in nowhere, Texas, an island in an ocean of stringy crops and flattened plains, there will be peace in Thor’s life as he’s never known it before. Peace that looks like Loki tumbling in from his chores, freshly washed, his shirt open and his long, pale neck exposed, the skin there mottled merrily by Thor’s mouth. That looks like his mother in the yard with her goats, laughing, the afternoon sun white on her face. That looks like evenings on the porch, lingering, breathing in the warm air with Loki’s arms around his neck, the two of them humming softly.

For Thor, then, in those last years before the war, happiness looks like this: a dark-haired man on the side of the road, unexpected, a pair of eyes that see into him, miles.

_“No chance you’re heading towards Houston, is there?”_

_“That’s in the other direction.”_

“Well,” Loki will say on those occasions when the line between Thor’s thoughts and his mouth is the shortest, when they’ve been drinking up the last of the old Prohibition rot gut, “the other direction would’ve been the wrong one, wouldn’t it?” He’ll tuck his face against Thor’s throat, tighten the catch of his arms, murmur: “I’m glad I came this way instead.”

And on nights like that that, Thor will forget himself, forget that the moon is full and that if anyone was there to look, they'd be visible across the flats for miles. He’ll forget and he'll reach down and free himself and have Loki right there, tipped back in a chair, Loki’s thighs spread over his, and when Loki comes from his fingers on his clit and Thor’s dick tucked up inside, Thor will sigh and press his head on Loki’s shoulder and fuck up into that soft velvet nest and spill his seed where it belongs, where it was meant to be.

“Where it’s supposed to be,” he’ll whisper, after, his voice slurred by moonshine and sex. “With you, my love. In you. Home.”


End file.
